I’m about to tell him the owl’s name is Rowan, but one glance in his direction confirms he thinks pixies are weird, so I keep the info to myself.
And I can’t take offense because the truth is, we are sort of strange. It seems there’s not one of us who doesn’t have their quirks. My friend Nadine makes pinecone hedgehogs and hides them in her local library for people to find. My mother crochets bunny beds out of sphagnum moss and tucks them into bushes in the forest. And my father, dear man that he is, tracks gnome villages and leaves chocolate almonds for them to find like Easter eggs.
And I…well, I’m rather boring. Or I was until I inherited my aunt’s fortune, cottage, tea shop, and owl. I suppose I’ve adopted her quirks.
Hudson looks like he’s about to ask why Laverna had such a creature when the small owl swoops into the room on nearly silent wings and perches on a swing hung from the ceiling.Tawny red and white, he stares at me with golden eyes. The feathers that make a vee on his forehead are drawn low like eyebrows, and slowly, he lowers his tufts. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s judging me.
Startled by the owl’s sudden appearance, Chester’s growls turn into staccato barks.
“Hush,” I command, not that it ever works.
Rowan snaps his beak at the dog, unimpressed. Chester whimpers once and then cowers behind my legs.
Hudson turns his frown to Chester. “Brave pup, isn’t he?”
I reluctantly pull my eyes from the owl. “I’m sure they’ll get along once they get to know each other.”
“Sure.” Hudson heads out the door. “I’ll get the rest of your things.”
I watch him go, tempted to follow him, mostly to escape Rowan’s unblinking stare. But I remain here and soothe Chester instead, glad he quit barking.
Five minutes later, my mishmash of thrift store suitcases is sitting near the entry by a coat rack ladened with hats and jackets—none of which belong to me.
“I think that’s all of it,” Hudson says from the doorway. “Let me give you my number in case you need a ride.”
“How far away is my aunt’s tea shop?” I ask, offering him my phone so he can enter it.
“Main Street is about a forty-minute walk, but you can cut that in half if you ride a bike. Laverna had one she got around on. It’s probably here somewhere.”
“So, no cars, but bikes are okay?”
“The council believes the sound of engines ruins Moss Hollow’s aesthetics, but they decided bikes were acceptable in the mid-eighties.”
“What about delivery trucks?”
“All packages are delivered to the local post office by wagon. Visit them in the next few days, and they’ll set you up with a P.O. Box. You’ll also pick up your mail there.”
“And how do the shops get their goods?”
He returns my phone. “I run a warehouse just behind the parking garage outside of town. People meet my drivers there, sign for their shipments, and then they either load them into their own wagons or use our services.”
All of this is going to take a while to get used to.
“Thank you for everything.” I clasp my hands as he steps out the door, desperate to call him back so I won’t have to face this quiet cottage alone. But I don’t, of course. He has things to do, and I’m a big girl. “It was nice to meet you.”
Hudson gives me a wave from the buggy and then takes off down the lane, leaving me alone with my dog and the owl with the judgy eyes.
I can feel those eyes boring into the back of my head right now. After closing the door, I slowly turn.
“Hi there, Rowan,” I say to the diminutive owl, determined that he and I will become friends. “I’m Kathleen, but everyone calls me Kit. Well, everyone except my grandma, who says Kit’s a name for fox shifters. She’s traditional like that.”
Unblinking, the owl stares at me.
Daunted by his avian focus, I clear my throat and continue, “I’m your new owner. You’re a pretty guy, aren’t you? Look at your little feather tufts. Oh, you’re tucking them against your head again. Do you not like me talking to you?” I take a hesitant step closer. “I’m nice, I promise. I’m going to buy you all the mice you want. I’m really freaked out at the idea of feeding them to you, but I’ll manage.”
The feather ridge above his eyes lowers even further, and I swear he’s glaring at me.
With a disdainful flap of his wings, he boldly meets my eyes. “I do my own hunting.”
